


early sunsets over sanctuary

by zesulin



Series: Expensive Mistakes [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, Ghoulfication, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, b will get beter!, don't worry i'll probably make this happy later on, i love my boys too much to make them sad for good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 05:33:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14489910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zesulin/pseuds/zesulin
Summary: Everyone and their mother wanted a piece of that old world charm and kindness, that softer stuff that Hancock rarely ever saw. Even he wanted. Basil was all book smarts and soft words—he might have turned his nose up at that once, but, well, he didn’t really have much a nose to turn anymore, so that was that.





	early sunsets over sanctuary

The shadows of evening had long nestled into place, leaving the small settlement in darkness, save for the punctuated pools of yellowy light cast from the street lamps and the warm glow of the perpetual campfires. Basil had said once that it felt like camping forever— falling asleep with the soft murmur of voices and the smell of woodsmoke permeating the air; Waking up cold every morning with dew in your hair. He said it reminded him of his college days, before the War. Though Hancock couldn’t say he exactly knew what kind of camping he was referring to, he had smiled nonetheless. He had to imagine the adjustment had been hard for his man out of time, and he could hardly blame him for finding pieces of nostalgia to keep him sane in…whatever the hell this was to him. It was all Hancock had ever known.

Everyone had their ways of coping. Hancock had chems for hard days (hell, the easy days, too)— a hit of jet, palmful of mentats. Basil had his dog and his memories, and sometimes his pip-boy.

Tonight, he lay curled in the center of their worn bed. Swathed in a thin knit blanket and a tattered quilt with Dogmeat at his feet, the amber light of his pip-boy cast his face in stark shadow, accentuating his tired eyes and gaunt face. From the sound of it, he was going hard at Red Menace—a bedtime ritual of sorts, probably to fight off the insomnia.

Despite the clear weariness, he looked happy enough.

Hancock almost felt cruel for disrupting the man as he entered—he could only take breaks so long before it was back to the grind again. Seemed sometimes like Basil was putting the whole damn Commonwealth back together with his own bare hands. Everyone and their mother wanted a piece of that old world charm and kindness, that softer stuff that Hancock rarely ever saw. Even he wanted. Basil was all book smarts and soft words—he might have turned his nose up at that once, but, well, he didn’t really have much a nose to turn anymore, so that was that.

Dead leaves crunched beneath Hancock’s worn boots, and Basil startled. At the end of the bed, Dogmeat whined.

“Easy, B. Just me.” An exhale of relief, followed by a pinch of the nose bridge. He was wearing his reading glasses—incidentally, they’d still been in the drawer where he had left them nearly 200 years previously.

“Hancock. Sorry I disappeared on you earlier. I got…tired.” And he sounded it. His voice was rough with exhaustion, bordering on gravelly in a way that it seldom was. The ghoul waved, leaning into the bent doorframe with his brow furrowed in concern. Red Menace blipped in the background, a stream of eight-bit noise counting the seconds that rolled by.

“No big. I figure, all you’re doing, you’ll need twice as much sleep,” He paused, voice dropping, “You need anything?” Blip blip blip. Death. On screen, the weird little octopus thing* cackled, setting the game back to the main screen. (* B had said it was an anthropomorphic Chinese flag, once, but honestly, Hancock couldn’t see it.)

Another sigh from the bed. Not exasperated, just…tired. Lost. A sigh that he’d heard himself make countless times over the decades. Basil was quiet for a long time, long enough that the light on his pip-boy dimmed, and eventually went out. Hancock could see him run a hand through his hair, see the corners of his green eyes crinkle in a pained expression. When he spoke again, his voice sounded broken.

“I think I’m sick.”

That took him off guard— sent a jolt of panic into his chest, where it nested and spread, cold fear through his veins. “Sick like how?” Basil just shook his head, wincing has he did so. 

“I haven’t been feeling well since I went to the Glowing Sea. It was…worse at first, and then better, but now…” The fear mounted, clawing its way up his throat like something feral, threatening to burst at any moment, settling noxiously in the back of his throat. “…Hancock, my skin is flaking. I’ve taken so much Rad-X, gone to Doc Sun, but it’s not…doing anything.” His voice cracked, breaking at the end.

And Hancock could remember that feeling, that first sober moment where he realized just what was happening. He’d been lucky. One and done, the transformation had been quick, and he’d been so high off his ass that the pain didn’t matter. B…he didn’t do that stuff, not usually. Hancock had seen him pop mentats before, occasionally take something when his anxiety was getting bad enough that even Dogmeat couldn’t do anything. This must have been hell for him; The man was already so careful about his health, and now… His stomach was turning, and he took a half-step closer to the bed. Another, and he was sitting down beside his lover, scarred hands gently passing over his cheek, brow furrowed in concern. Basil could have seen it swimming in the inky depths of his eyes, even by the weak light of the pip-boy. The bed protested beneath them, the 200 year old frame giving yet another empty threat of giving out, but Hancock didn’t care.

Fast, miserable huffs of air broke the silence, the precursor to silent sobbing that everyone in the Commonwealth had heard before. The cry of a drifter in the dark, or a friend too strong to admit pain. Familiarity didn’t make it any less painful to hear–especially now that the ghoul could see his love’s face crumpling in despair, see the first streaks of tears shining on his cheeks, the dimpling of his chin, the tremor in his shoulders. This is what the people never saw–the vulnerability behind the veneer. Wordlessly, Hancock snaked his arms around his neck, careful of disturbing skin, and held him close. The man shuddered in his arms, breaking down further–muffling sobs into historic garments, into ruined flesh. He closed his inky eyes, cradling him, gently shushing. It would be okay. They would both be okay.

After some time, the crying subsided, and Basil was left weak and shuddering in his arms. The pain he was clearly in was nearly palpable; Hancock could feel the old ache in his bones, the phantom after-burn of irradiation that had clung to his skin for weeks after that one fateful night. This would be painful. The progression here seemed slow, and that was dangerous. A quick process meant less risk of infection, and higher rate of survival. If it was slow…they risked necrosis, or the slow descent into madness that made ferals. And Hancock…couldn’t have that. Not now, not Basil. Not someone who deserved way more than this wasteland could offer. 

Beneath him, his love ceased his silent gasps for air, subsiding into slow breaths. Sleep. Hancock knew he wouldn’t be able to after this, not with the worry that ate at him–but to at least have him resting in his arms, proving life with every warm exhale…At least he had that.


End file.
